Sailed On
by Racquet
Summary: Like two ships passing in the night, we're gone. Jack was never a Mercer. AU. Oneshot. T for swearing.


**A/N: **Long time, no type. Sorry for the long absence everybody, some personal stuff came up that kept me away for a while, and now I'm going to college full time so it's hard to find time to write. I will be getting a new chapter of Aberration up as soon as I can find some time to write it.

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Four Brother belongs to people who are not me, and the lyrics to _Sailed On_ belong to Landon Pigg, not me either.

-- -- --

He could feel the pain working it's way into his skull, the dull throbbing creeping up behind his eyes. Pressing calloused thumbs against the tired lids he willed the pain to stop, he had work to do, work that could only be made worse by the pain. There was too much room for error in this line of work, too much room to fuck it all up. Leaning back against the uncomfortable chair he was slouched in, Jack's gaze traveled around the bar, scouring the dwindling crowd for a familiar, yet unwelcome, face. He came up empty, and frustrated. The waiting, that's what bothered him the most about what he was doing, he could deal with the other...aspects, but the waiting left for too much time, too many minutes to let his mind wander. And it never wandered to comforting places.

-- -- --

The tiled floor seemed different today. He was aware that the thought was outlandish and absurd, that the tiles hadn't changed during the decade that he had sat in these chairs and that they were no different today than they had been the first time he had sat here and kept his eyes trained on the dizzying beige floor. But they felt different. It was probably just nerves, nothing a quick smoke couldn't fix, he thought harshly, leaning to the side for better access to the crumpled pack resting in his pocket.

"Jack Reynolds?"

He paused, looking towards the sound of the voice, a white-haired woman stood holding a chart, a small smile spread across her features. He stood, willing this to be over as soon as possible. He hated this building. Hated the way it smelled, the constant sound of babies crying or people yelling, the sullen atmosphere that resided here. He hated it. He'd always hated it. The aging woman stepped towards him as he moved, offering him a wrinkled hand. He stared at her, gaze relaying between her face and the outstretched hand.

"Where's Tom?" he lowered his voice, willing it to sound dangerous, intimidating.

Her smile refused to falter.

"He had a last minute meeting," her hand remained open and empty, patient. "I hope you don't mind that you'll be seeing me today instead."

She ushered him easily into her office, closing the door quietly behind her before moving gracefully to her desk and sitting down, lacing her fingers together on the wooden surface. He stared at her, she stared back. Smiling. He wished she would just stop smiling, drop the act and get to the point...dropping him.

"If you'll just sit down we can get started."

He felt a slight burn of embarrassment creep up his neck and spread across his cheeks, like a wave drawing in to meet the shore. Sitting down, what a novel idea dickface!, he reprimanded himself as he slouched further into the cushions of the chair he had quickly retreated to as he fought to regain his composure.

And she continued to smile. It was really starting to piss him off.

"Okay then," she sighed heavily before falling silent, flipping open the cover to his file and scanning the pages. He knew what would come next, waited for it and in a sick, fucked up way relished in it as the smile finally fell from her face. As her hand involuntarily relocated itself over her throat before moving seamlessly to cover her open mouth, breath coming in harsh, irregular gusts.

He stared at her, hard. Wanting to make her feel uncomfortable, wanting to watch her squirm like John and the others before him had, to seal their relationship, no matter how short it might last, as one of continued awkwardness and knowledge that they both knew what was in that file, and it couldn't be unseen. She glanced at him, looked into his eyes, and held their gaze. His foot started to bounce, rubber sole squeaking as it hit the tile. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, she was supposed to turn away, leave the room, tell him they were done. This stupid bitch had to be new to this game or just plain fucking stupid. He refused to blink, could feel the sting in the back of his eyes but he'd be damned if he was going to lose to this cunt. But the weight of her gaze was heavy, it was massive, like an elephant jumping on his eyelids, urging him to look away.

And he did. His face jerked to the side as if slapped and he bit down hard on his tongue, punishing himself for his weakness as the blunt pressure of his teeth sunk into the pink muscle, the metallic taste filling his mouth.

"Jack..." her voice was soft, composed. He sat in the heavy silence, trying to work out a plan of action, a way to regain the upper hand. He'd never been the sharpest crayon in the box, a definite follower, leaving others to do the thinking.

"What." he felt like kicking himself for the small shake that slipped out through the word, another sign of weakness, he was trying to break a record today it seemed.

"Do you have somewhere to go, somebody to stay with now? A plan?"

"Yeah. My, uh, buddy's cousin offered to let me stay with him until I can get a place of my own." he cleared his throat. "He's a mechanic, does some custom work and shit, offered to teach me some stuff."

Lies, of course.

She nodded. He could tell she didn't believe him, he'd always been a shitty liar, man he'd even rehearsed this in the bathroom earlier. Shit.

"I see. Would you mind giving me his phone number and address? I like to try and keep some way of contacting people when they leave, in case something important comes up."

She was smiling again. She seemed sad. He was fucked.

He sat, contemplating. They both knew he didn't have an answer, why was she making this so damn hard for him? He could feel the anger swell in his stomach, like a funnel it began to concentrate, the pressure of it growing.

"Jack?" her voice was apprehensive.

"What the fuck do you people want from me?!" It felt good to be mad, the pressure leaving with the air in his lungs. He glared across the table at the aging woman, she seemed surprised. He felt an instant sense of shame shoot through him as he stared at her, wide eyes mirroring his own. He stood swiftly, the heavy chair grinding loudly as it met the back of his knees and slid across the floor. He pivoted easily away from the desk, away from the woman, and strode purposefully towards the door, gripping the doorknob angrily and wrenching it open. The pleading voice made him stop.

"Jack, hold on a minute, please?"

He closed his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh before turning around, allowing the tips of his windswept fingers to fall from the tarnished brass of the doorknob.

"What?"

She stood briskly, as if she was afraid he would rush out of the room if she didn't hurry. He remained still as she moved towards him, rubber soles squeaking audibly in the quiet room as she neared.

"I want you to take this." She held up a small white card in her wrinkled hand, pushing it suggestively towards Jack, eyebrows raised. "Just because you're eighteen, doesn't mean you can't have any more help."

Her voice was calm, comforting. He paused a moment before reaching for the card and she pressed it firmly to his palm, gently grasping his young hand between her own age worn ones until he pulled away, card traveling the distance. He nodded quickly before turning away from her once more, wrenching the door open with his vacant hand and stepping into the bright hallway. He'd been here enough times over the years to register the layout automatically. He moved confidently over the beige tiled floor of the hallway, stoic appearance concealing the rapid thumping of his heart as he moved down the hallway, passing the ever chatty receptionist and the walls of inspirational quotes and bright crayon drawings. He pushed forcefully against the steel bar that lay across the heavy door, both giving way under his weight as he continued forward, barely slowing.

The short-lived feeling of freedom hastily gave way to a creeping sense of dread as a frigid blast of air hit his pale face, forcing him to wrap the thick jacket closer around himself as he hiked the pack higher on his back. This was it. Glancing down at the small rectangular piece of paper that rested in his hand, Jack held it to his face, reading the small black print as he walked. Evelyn Mercer the card read, centered boldly above a phone number and an address. He scoffed quietly, the small noise lost in the cold Detroit winds as he curled his hand into a tight fist, the small rectangle crumpling in on itself, grip only loosening to toss it into a nearby trash can as he passed.

-- -- --

The powerful shattering of glass knocked the thoughts from the front of his brain, sending them reeling into the depths of his brain to be drug out and re-hashed another time, another place. He looked towards the sound, two drunken men were throwing punches, undoubtedly one of them had thrown the pitcher of beer they had been sharing when he had first come in. Funny how alcohol can so drastically change a person in only a matter of hours, something Jack had learned at a young age. Something he'd never forget. He watched idly as the bouncers drug the two men apart, the short, white guy landing some of his own well timed punches as they drug the men out the back door. He doubted either of the men would remember the fight in the morning, they rarely did. The bouncers returned, smiling, and helped themselves to a beer after a job well done. At least they'd be out of his way for his work, one less thing to worry about. Working in public always made him nervous.

The sudden vibration against his leg made him jump and his breath quicken. He composed himself and rose slowly, trying to act nonchalant as his gaze swept over the crowd again, landing on his customer, they made eye contact for a brief moment before they both looked away. Faking a stretch and a yawn, Jack moved forward, hands slipping into his jean pockets and fingering the bag there, reassuring himself that everything was going according to plan. He saw the man again from the corner of his eye and adjusted his path quickly as they advanced on one another. Just feet away now he pulled the small bag from his pocket, holding it firmly between his pointer and middle fingers as he held his hand out, waiting for the cold flesh of his buyer's hand to meet his as he focused on the neon clock across the room.

But the hand didn't come. Before he could turn his head to see what was going on a vice grip enveloped his wrist, twisting his hand upwards, bag still held tightly between his fingers.

"What the fuck've we got here?"

The grip tightened around his wrist as he tried to wrench his hand away, the bouncer smirked as he plucked the small bag from Jack's fingers and examined the contents before sliding it into his pocket.

"Let's go."

The grip on his wrist disappeared for a split second before he was grabbed by the front of his jacket and pulled forcefully towards the back of the bar. It wasn't like he'd never been thrown out of a bar before, for one, he wasn't even of legal drinking age yet, and most places didn't want people pushing in their respectable establishments, hah! Unless of course, they received a cut of the money themselves, greedy bastards. He had suffered a steep learning curve while getting thrown out of bars, and he'd learned a few good lessons. For one, don't fight the bouncers. They're always bigger than you are, just let them shove you around a bit so they can feel all macho and they'll probably let you go sooner, hell if you put up a good front they might even give you your shit back! Oh, and another good rule, brace yourself.

He knew it was coming as soon as the door opened, so he was prepared when his feet lost contact with the ground and his palms slid agonizingly across the gravel. At least he'd saved his face this time.

What he wasn't expecting was the grip on the back of his jacket, dragging him up again, pushing him hard against the wall, or the hard right hook to the jaw. The pain exploded over his face and stars danced across the darkness, fading only quickly enough to be redoubled as the blow came again. And again. He was pulled forward then, just a few inches away from the wall, but the bouncer was only inches from his face, lips curled back in a cold, calculated sneer.

"Listen here, mother fucker. I don't _ever_ want to see your ass around here again, you fuckin understand me? My fucking family lives in this neighborhood and you bringing your punk ass up here with that shit can only bring more trouble. Comprende faggot?"

He didn't wait for Jack to answer, not that Jack was planning on giving one, instead he pulled Jack even further from the wall only to slam him back against it, Jack's head making contact with the hard bricks of the wall behind him. And again the stars danced. He felt himself slipping down the wall as the other man backed away, coming to an abrupt halt as he met with the floor.

He could feel the bouncer still standing over him, could feel the eyes on his face as he looked away, stared into the night. He could feel the tension between the two of them and willed the other man to go away, he wasn't going to be causing anymore trouble tonight. It seemed like they stood there, like that, in the silence, forever.

The silence was finally broken as the door to the bar swung open, the noise from inside seeping into the alleyway, the light hurting his eyes.

"Bobby, let's go! Billy started another brawl man, get in here!"

And he went. And Jack was alone.

-- -- --

_Like two ships passing in the night_

_We're gone_

_Only the moon and the stars in the sky_

_Did know to cry for me as I sailed on._

_-- -- --_

**Racquet**


End file.
